Catching Jedi
by Sivad Ttarp
Summary: Book Two of the Force Games. The Force Games changed Kara Evenstern's life forever, but that's not all they changed. The sparks of rebellion are spreading and the Empire's totalitarian regime no longer seems so stable. Kara faces death once again unless she can turn the tide...
1. Chapter 1

Catching Jedi

Book Two of The Force Games

By Sivad Ttarp

Part One:

The Spark

Chapter One:

Music wakes me up. Something all orchestral and heroic, the kind of piece that's intended to fill little boys mind's with visions of swordplay, monsters and busty women with slits in their gowns.

I reach out and slam down my fist on the button before I even open my eyes. My alarm turns off.

I roll over, and snap fully alert in an instant when I feel something soft and warm. I get up on my hands and knees, cast off my sheets, run my hand across the smooth abdominal musculature, rising and falling with even breath. Yeah, he's just where I left him.

I hop over him and off the bed, landing neatly on the balls of my feet. Morning light trickles across my bedroom floor, issuing between the blinds across my picture window. I go to it and yank it all the way open. The city is alive. Speeders and ships zoom past my window, and sunlight gleams off the silvery skyscrapers surrounding my apartment building. Another day on Coruscant.

I take a shower, just long enough to soap myself down and wash my hair. My pendant hangs down between my breasts, cold against my skin. The symbol of the Jayze. I've waterproofed the wood and cord, so I can wear it always. Reminds me of where I came from. Occasionally it reminds me of Galen. I hope he's leading the gang well in my absence.

Dabbing at my face with a towel, I pad back into the room. He's awake now, the boy. Sitting up on the bed, still naked, blinking stupidly in the light.

He looks the same as the last one. About the same as the last dozen actually. I do that on purpose. Seems the thing to do. He's about a year older than me, making him eighteen. Human, slim strong build, blonde hair, blue eyes, and sloppy with his hands. I can compensate for the last one though.

"So…" he says. "Morning."

"Yeah," I say, and I go to my closet. My clothes from last night are strewn over the floor, but I go for the clean ones. I put on undergarments, and pull on a gray long sleeved shirt.

He looks just a bit disappointed that I'm getting dressed. "So, I was wondering; if you're doing anything today, if you wanted, we could do something. I could stick around."

"I have class," I say. "All day. I'm kind of busy."

"Oh…" he says.

I pull on black pants, black socks, and black boots. He watches my bare legs disappear from view. It's like he's a droid who's been activated, but hasn't been given any job to do.

"Look," I finally take pity on him. "There's a shower, there's food in the cupboards, and your clothes are still right there where you left them." I gesture at the floor. "I've got to run. Make sure and lock up on the way out."

"I'll see you again right?" he asks.

"Yeah," I lie, "I'll call you tonight." I'm out the door before he can even try to kiss me again.

I leave my apartment complex, and make for the shuttle that'll take me to the campus. Finis Valorum University, that's where I go to school. Like my apartment, my education is bought and paid for by my social status, courtesy of the Empire. There are a few people Palpatine makes sure his officers take care of. Victors of the Force Games fill that list. I'm one of those. Kara Evenstern of Tatooine, Victor of the 74th Force Games. They gave me an animal skin jacket that said just that on the back. It collects dust in my closet.

I lied about having to leave so quickly. I have time to buy a juice and a sweet roll from a machine and sit and wait for my shuttle. The boy will follow my instructions, won't do anything dishonest. I read him well enough to tell.

I wonder what he'll do. How he'll feel, what thoughts he'll have. I won't call him back. Not only that, I'll never visit the diner where I found him ever again.

I used to follow up, date again and again. Never felt right, wasn't the same. It was only the first time that mattered. Everything else was a rerun. It was the first action, the decisive change in a person's state of being. Being that catalyst of that switch, it nearly made me _feel _something. Only taking someone's life made me feel more powerful than I did taking their virginity. And killing anyone around here was liable to get me prosecuted and shot in the head. This wasn't Tatooine, this was Imperial central, and they didn't turn nearly as blind an eye. Even the deepest levels were filled with surveillance equipment and patrols.

So after a while, I'd stopped calling the boys back. There was no shortage of virgins, of any species, age or gender. All I had to do tell them my story, my title, even my name and give them a wink to go ahead, and they'd be ripping their pants open.

So I went for a series of one-night stands and speedy seductions. Each one was almost identical, each one looked like him. I called them each Perrin in my head. Seemed only right. He was my first. Not the first male I had sex with, but the first one I really changed, the first innocence I blotted out.

Like I said, there was nothing like it. Other than killing.

My shuttle arrives. I take a seat by the window, pull my knees up so my boots are on the plush of the booth seat, and check the news on my datapad as the public transportation eases into the sky lane. The headline reads of an explosion at one of the Empire's shipyards. Three workers were killed. A full enquiry is being made. I yawn.

The shuttle is filled with other passengers, fine, well-dressed upstanding citizens, all minor politicians and doctors and such, heading out for another day at work serving the galaxy. Nonthreatening, nonsocial, boring. What I get for living in a high-class neighborhood. Nobody approaches or talks to me.

I wonder how many of them recognize me. Winning the Games made me a minor celebrity overnight. I'm still approached on the street to pose of images and sign touch screens. I appear in the occasional society piece on the news as well, where they'll talk about my latest outfit (generally something utilitarian and non-fashionable) or what shows I'm following (none, fiction rarely interests me). The attention does not bother me, as long as it doesn't interfere with anything I'm trying to accomplish. Since I've mainly been trying to seem normal and not get arrested by not stealing or smoking anything illegal, they usually haven't bothered me.

Besides, Perrins are better than drugs anyway. They don't leave you feeling lesser when the effects wear off.

Once we're in the air, the shuttle ride takes less than ten minutes.

The campus is a built on a square of black metal high in the air, high in the air, classrooms, cafes and student housing, each are housed in unlabeled square rectangular buildings.

I enter one of the classroom blocks, hurry down the stairs and slip into a seat in the back of my class just before the professor enters. It's an auditorium shaped room, with the rows of desks decorating a slanted floor down to a stage area where the man in the crisp robe begins to pace. The room is decorated in blacks and greys with some red highlights; an obligatory Imperial insignia hangs on the wall above our heads.

"Welcome to Imperial history," says the teacher. "Actually, no need to greet you, you've been here all semester. As you know, the semester is ending, and before your little break from duty and work, final evaluations will begin. The first of this series of test begins today, right here and now in my class.

"Get out your datapads. Each of you will write me an essay outlining the story of the Stark Hyperspace War. Five thousand words is the minimum length. Any use of your notes will be, of course, prohibited. Begin."

Once more, my fight for survival begins.

…

After I won the Force Games, I really had no idea what came next. There were the obligatory interviews and appearances, but beyond that I had no idea what to expect.

The answer was school.

I knew every surviving victor worked for the Imperial government in some undisclosed office or position, but it turned out the Empire wasn't interested in promoting a sixteen year old girl fresh off the streets of Mos Espa to a management position. School came first. I was enrolled, and set up with an apartment, routine and schedule before I even knew what was happening.

It was a huge adjustment, but at the same time it was easy compared to killing forty-nine other teenagers on a forest moon. I knew how to read and right and conduct basic arithmetic, but I was also far behind most of my fellow students. I made up for it by being smarter than them. It turns out I had a mind for facts, I could remember historical events well, remember scientific formulas even better, and run more complex equations out of my head than any of my teachers. The arts were where I struggled, I could regurgitate facts, but creativity with words and sculpture didn't come easily to me. Fortunately, the Empire didn't place much worth on those topics anyway.

There were a few specialty classes as well, just what the Empire ordered. I was taught how to fly a ship and shoot a blaster. I'd known a bit about both before, but my knowledge had been full of holes, and I had a distinct feeling these skills were far more important than any biology or arithmetic course. After all, the Empire would want me to serve them in some way eventually, and there was really one thing I was known for. Killing people.

It had been almost a year since the games, but it didn't feel like it. Life in the Jayze had always been changing, always in flux. As a student, every day was very similar.

Someday I would return to Tatooine. See my Mother, Miram Evenstern, and my sister Primith again. But it hadn't happened yet. The Empire had been good on their word. I'd spoken to my family a few times via the holonet. They had a big house now, with all the luxuries and money they could want. Primith was already looking healthier, better fed, and had the best tutors on Tatooine to further her education. They were safe, they were secure.

Providing for my family had been an ongoing process, back before the Games. Now that was no longer the case. My task is complete. Survival had been my life long struggle, I still want nothing more than to continue to live, but I no longer met every day with the likelihood of a violent death looming over me.

I no longer have an immediate task. No ongoing meaning to my life.

So for the moment, I focus on school. Education is a tool, and I want every tool I can get. You never know what you might need to be prepared for.

My last class of the day is complete. I'm sure I did well on my mathematics final, if nothing else. I flick through my comlink, see her message. I have no plans. Most students are studying for finals, but I find studying doesn't help me much. I simply remember what I'm told. I respond in text with an affirmative.

Yes, I'll meet you for dinner.

I jumped switched shuttles once, and arrived on a wide thoroughfare, several miles below. Club Belloq was on the far corner, housed in a drab square building, illuminated only by colorful lights extending around the circular doorway, drawing patrons and their credits in like an elaborate flytrap.

Osca Trentiss meets me outside, gives me a quick hug. We flash our IDs and enter without problem. I'd probably be underage if I wasn't a tribute. If you're old enough to butcher other kids in the arena, they figure you're old enough to get wasted too. The bouncer, a portly Gamorrean, even recognizes me from the Games, and gleefully receives the autograph he asks me for.

Before I won the Games, my relationships were always symbiotic. My mother had helped me to survive, and in turn I began to help her to survive. She and Primith needed me. The Jayze needed me, we were friends out of necessity; we needed to work together. Galen and I played of each other's strengths, watched each other's backs, and got things done. Not so different from my alliances within the Games themselves. Even whenever things got sexual, it was always to gain someone's trust or sweeten some drug deal or gangland alliance.

After I won, life suddenly became a lot less dangerous. Hanging out with people was no longer based entirely on necessity. I hadn't seen or heard from Chrona (my stylist) or Vaynich (my mentor) since the post-Games hype. But Osca, the Tatooine PR representative, kept in touch. She'd taken a liking to me. She wasn't much older than me and just as socially awkward in her own way. She thought my deadpan commentary was funny and ironic. I also can fake being a good listener like nobody's business.

With Osca, I've had the chance to practice being what people call friendship, or at least I think that's what it is. There's no constant peril, no symbiotic financial relationship. We just casually experience each other's company in our downtime. We mostly just go to different clubs, try different foods, talk about boys and politics, and get thoroughly drunk.

It's early yet, it's still light outside. There are certainly patrons, but the nightclub is not very busy. A balcony wends around the room above us, dotted with betting tables and giant veiwscreens showing sporting events, podraces and droid gladiatorial games. I even glimpse a clip of a Force Games rerun.

Techno music bleeds out over a mostly deserted dance floor. Osca's eyes light up when she sees the colorful bar, an extensive booth decorated with vials and tubes of psychedelic colored liquids. We talk with the robot, exchange credits, and take our narrow glasses of blue ale back to a table sequestered behind a pillar, where we sit opposite each other. We order our food from another droid who wanders too our table

"Someday," Osca looks me up and down, "I'm really going to have to teach you how to dress for these places. You look like you just got out of class."

"I did just get out of class," I say. I'm still wearing my gray shirt and black pants. "What'd you just get out of, a Twi'lek brothel?" Osca's blonde hair is done up in ringlets, and there are sparkling dust around her eyes. Her shoes are heels, constructed of leather straps binding her legs right up to the hem of her short black skirt. Her shirt reminds me of flames, its dull orange with yellow, red and black. It has full-length airy sleeves, but such a V-neck in the front it seems as though her breasts are about to make a full appearance.

She chuckles and makes a face. "Oh, they wish they had me. All the other Twi'lek girls would be out of work. But, in all seriousness, it's the culture of the thing, of places like this. You've got to get into it. Otherwise, what's the point?"

"To watch other people getting into it," I say. "Or…just watch holofeeds."

"So, how are you? What's up with your life?" Osca asks, putting her chin on her hands and her elbows on the table.

I sip my blue drink. It's alright, but I like my alcohol with less artificial sweetener. "I'm…fine," I say. "Just school. I've already told you everything about school. What about you?"

"Same old," she chuckles, "Barely anything. Today I slept till noon, and got my nails done at a place. I'm glad I'm not in school anymore." She flashed her nails, which glimmer and glitter in the light, sharpened to little points.

Osca has an incredibly easy life, for most of the year. She's an official PR person for the Games, an operative who works with the team from a planet throughout the Games process. Between Games, her services are unneeded, so she basically has an extended vacation, living off the hefty wage she receives every year. Osca mostly does whatever she wants. She enjoys the relaxation, but gets a little bored on occasion. That's where I come in, I think. It's a pretty sweet job, at least that part is. Once the Games come around, she is genuinely good at what she does. I think she can thank her Grand Moff aunt for landing her the position, though she never talks about her family.

"You nervous?" she asks. "It's back to work for both of us in just a few weeks. The Victory tour."

It had slipped my mind. The Victory Tour is where the Victor visits each of the twenty-five planets participating in the prior Force Games, ending with their own, where there's a another huge finale, party thing. It'll be my first time back on Tatooine since the Games.

"After the Games, I doubt a silly thing like that would make me nervous," I say.

She laughs, "Yeah, I can't imagine what the Games must have been like for you. And believe me, I've tried. At least at the end of the tour you'll get to see your family again. I can meet them."

"That's something," I say, "That's about it actually. I like this planet better. Less sand, more showers." Less gang violence too, but nowhere is perfect.

Osca laughs, "Oh, you're family got a new richy house, remember? You can shower to your heart's content."

"Right," I say.

"They might announce the Quell at the after party," she says, conspiratorially.

"The which?"

"You don't know," she seems mildly scandalized.

"I had more important things to worry about back home, remember," I said. "Like eating every couple days."

"Well," she sniffs. "The Quarter Quell every twenty-five years they do a special Games where they shake things up. This'll be the 75th Force Games, and hence, the Quell. It's always something different. Last time they put twice as many kids in the arena."

I almost choke on my drink. "A hundred tributes. Hell, I could barely kill a dozen."

"Yeah," says Osca, wistfully. "Anyway, we'll see what they do. You might even mentor this year. Tatooine will have a choice between you and Vaynich."

"If Tatooine is even chosen," I say. Only twenty-five planets are selected, to send their tributes to the Games

"True," says Osca, "But when a planet has a victor, that planet is almost always chosen to be reaped the next Games."

"I guess," I said. "I don't know. I hope I don't, I'm not sure how to mentor."

"You couldn't be much more useless than Vaynich," Osca pointed out.

"True," I shrugged. "I guess I'd say...run and hide. Let other people kill each other. Strike when the time is right. Make alliances, but only when you can't go it alone. And…wear sunscreen."

Osca laughed at the last part. "I'm not kidding," I say, "Some of those tributes got really red. Not me of course, I'm used to it."

We lapse into silence. "Do you miss him?" Osca asked. "Like…constantly."

"Who? Oh, Perrin. Of course I miss," I lie.

"Is that part of why I don't see you usually, you know, getting with many guys? You could have any you wanted you know."

"I know," I say. "It's not the same." It really isn't, not the same as seducing one now and then. Long-range formative relationships seem just…like too much work. Maybe I should try one sometime though, test out that style of interaction. "How about you," I ask. "Job like yours, shirt like that," I gestured at her chest.

"I have…yeah," she shrugged.

Our food arrives. I jab it with my knife and fork. Some kind of meat strip with seasoning and white sauce, fish maybe?

"I'll tell you what," says Osca, after swallowing her first bite. "Next time, maybe in two or three days, I'm taking you out to the local shopping district and you are getting flashy clothing, cultural clothing, clubbing clothing. I'll help you choose. You'll look actually recognizable, so people can tell who you are."

"Okay," I said. "But I do feel fine the way I am."

"But…" she presses.

"But," I say, "That would be lovely."

…

Dinner is filling. The flavors blend well, but the overall dish is over hyped. Food is food. It's how much it helps you live that matters.

Osca and I have a few more drinks, as we watch a huttball game played by bulky antique battle droids. I hope never to meet one of those. If Ewoks alone were almost enough to kill me, these droids would kick my ass.

As the evening wears on, the music gets louder and less obscure as the club fills. We chat more about trivial things, school and entertainment and such. I sense Osca is slightly nervous. Perhaps she's worried that bringing up Perrin has left me emotionally distressed. I decide not to mind, I prefer her lower maintenance questions. Eventually we say our goodbyes, clasp hands, and depart.

I take the shuttle back to my apartment. I could get my own speeder if I wanted, I have the credits, but so far I haven't found in necessary. Besides, I see how people act in the traffic lanes. I don't want to be a part of that.

I key in my security code and enter my apartment. I'm surprised to see that the lights from the living room area are on. I'm usually pretty good at keeping those off then I leave. On Tatooine, we didn't waste power. Also, I'd set to motion activation, which makes it even odder.

I feel for the knife in my boot as I head in to the lightened room. It wasn't easy to get, not like on Tatooine where there are knives, and even blasters, all over the place. In any case, I didn't feel safe without carrying some kind of weapon. This knife was particularly good, made from a blend of alloys that made it imperceptible to most metal detectors. Fortunate, as there were so many such detectors and weapon-free zones all over the Imperial capital. You might think a government that prided itself on military superiority above almost all else would have the balls to let a girl carry a blaster into a restaurant.

"Hello Kara," says one of the last people I'd expect to find in my apartment without notice. "Please put your toy away. You won't need it."

Unashamedly, I slip the knife back into my boot.

Grand Moff Frea Trentiss eyes me, and leans back in my armchair, taking a shallow sip from her wineglass. My wineglass, I realize, filled with my own wine. The bottle is out on the table.

"Have a drink," she suggests. "It may help."

"No thank you," I say. I've had enough already. My head is just a little buzzy. "Is this a social call?"

"No, I have business," says Trentiss. "But do know that you'll not repeat anything I say here. I come as a friend, not a Grand Moff."

I'd met Osca's aunt before my Force Games; she regularly presided over the reaping in that sector of space. Her star destroyer had delivered Perrin and I back to Coruscant. If there was one thing I'd say she thought of me as, it wouldn't be a friend. More like a nuisance. A chore, maybe.

I pull up a stool from the kitchenette. The seat could double as a weapon in a pinch. "What's on your mind?"

"The Force Games," she says. "I imagine you haven't forgotten them. Most victors tell me they're continually reliving their experiences."

"That's not so far off," I say cryptically.

"Well," Trentiss continues, sipping at the wine. "The seventy-fourth Force Games were quite the success in many ways. The arena was abnormally well constructed, and the pre-games hype and training were surprisingly well conducted. The Games themselves were an entertainment spectacular, which made the audience laugh and cry and leap from their seats in excitement."

"You're welcome," I say.

"No, I'm not thanking you," said Trentiss. "There's a delicate thing about the Games, and what they're supposed to represent. They give hope. But just enough hope to pacify, not too much so the people rebel, not too little so they lay down and die. Just enough positive emotion and you upset that balance. I wasn't sure, not at the time, but I am now. I've seen the protests, heard the complaints. You're in trouble."

"Why?" I ask.

"You introduced an element people aren't used to seeing," she said. "Love. Young love, with just the right dose of scandal and sensuality to send housewives across the galaxy into a frenzy. Then it was taken away from you."

"It was another tribute, I can't change that," I said. In fact, I'd killed Perrin, pulled him into the way of that arrow, but for all intents and purposes he'd sacrificed himself for me.

"That's not the point," said Trentiss. "You reminded them of the Empire's tyranny, reminded them of the true shock and awe of what we do every year, what it really means, and that people are really dying."

"Well if you didn't want us to team up, why issue the rule change," I ask. "Why say two tributes could win?"

"The Force Games are a business," says Trentiss. "A local governor agreed to step down, if we'd save his daughter from the Games. A little Zabrak girl. We thought Fen would win, and that this might be the most efficient way to save her without creating the need to save face. You and Perrin were entirely unforeseen."

I nod. I'd been wondering about their reasoning since before the end of the Games.

"It was your pendant that did it," says Trentiss. I'm suddenly glad I'm wearing it beneath your shirt, out of sight. "That was the last straw. I've seen your press conference, where you explain where it came from, that it was no Rebel Alliance symbol. It's good acting on your part, but not convincing enough. You showed them how the Empire took your love away, and then, finally, in the last few minutes, your necklace showed them what they could do about it."

I remembered the shot, the close-up on my pendent, red with Fen's blood. It had been removed in subsequent editions of the Games's final cut. Gamesmaster Sorin Crang had also apologized, said he didn't mean anything by it, and publicly denounced his lack of historical knowledge. This was shortly after he suffered a near fatal speeder accident that left him with a new cybertronic right eye.

"You think I've started a Rebellion?"

"Not yet," Trentiss finishes her wine, and sets the glass down on the arm of the chair. "That's what we're trying to prevent. Rebels without a cause are psychopaths. Rebels with a cause, with lost loves and role models, are heroes. And heroes just get people killed."

"Where are you going with this," I fake a yawn. It's convincing enough for her.

"We need you to act," she says. "The Victory Tour is almost upon us. It'll be the best performance of your life. You are going to show them that you are one of us. That you belong to us and that you are Imperial through and through. Do that, and that'll be the end of it. You'll be no hero and your lover no martyr. You'll show them how we are kind and good and merciful. That will be that."

There is a long pause. "I'm guessing you didn't just come here as a friend," I say.

"It was an order," she admits. "They thought you might listen more to me than someone you've never met. I thought they were right. You have good taste in wine, for a seventeen-year girl."

"What if I refuse," I say, "Not that I will. Or what if I'm not convincing, which is much more likely."

"You won't be," she says.

"How do you know?" I asked.

Trentiss stands. She's said her piece. "Watching the Games taught me one thing about you. One thing that makes me think you'll want to do what I suggest."

"What?" I ask, feeling like she's always a couple answers ahead of my questions.

"You want to live," says Trentiss. She shows herself out.


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter 2:

I may be the star of the show, yet I seem to be the only one with nothing to do.

The next few weeks had rushed by, filled with finals. I did well, by and large, but some were legitimately difficult for me.

Now it was here, the pre-games media event the Imperial press had been waiting for. The seventy-fourth victory tour, the Empire's chance to show me off to the galaxy, and my chance to show the galaxy I was the Emperor's alone.

I wasn't sure about that. Was I really the Empire's girl. They'd tried to kill me, indirectly, for the entirety of the Force Games, and had arguably killed all those other tributes. But I didn't really care that much about that. Once I'd won, they had really taken good care of me. Even with the occasional threat from time to time. I'm going to try to say the right things. I convinced Perrin I loved him. How hard could the rest of the galaxy be?

Much harder. That's how hard it would be.

I stand alone, surrounded by activity. Technicians and droids rushed about the hanger. I was reminded of my arrival on Coruscant, the grand parade. But here I am the only tribute, and no one paid me any mind.

I am not quite sure what to expect from the tour. I'd watched the Games like everyone else, but I'd never bothered to catch the victory tour. All fluff, no violence. There was something raw and engaging about the Games that the faux-reality of the Empire's other personal interest programming couldn't match.

A shuttle had picked me up from my apartment that morning, and deposited me at the hanger, rushing off without another word. I'd dressed casually, my usual solid-color shirt and leggings with boots. I left my knife at home. Much as I liked having it with me, I figured there was approximately no chance it wouldn't be confiscated.

"Miss Evenstern." I had already something behind me, but I now turn to see the speaker. A pair of men tower over me, hidden in pure white armor. Stormtroopers. "You're not supposed to be out here. Your shuttle is prepared. We will escort you."

They lead me through the chaos of shuttle bay, one on either side. They aren't carrying blaster rifles, but they each have bulky pistols at their waists.

Stormtroopers are the poster-boys of the Imperial military, and with good reason. I fought one of them once, hand to hand, in an ambitious attempt to prove my worth to the Force Games judges. I'd gotten a generous percentage-rating, a high chance of winning to give me every other tributes undying (or dying) attention. Anyway, he had been one of the toughest opponents I'd ever faced.

When I had been taken to Trentiss's star destroyer after I was first reaped, the shuttle I had ridden in had been a comfortable one. But it was nothing compared to what was to be my home for the next few weeks. I was a celebrity, and my new ship would have befitted any major politician, pop star or rich industrialist. It was a sleek affair of mirrored silvery metal, shaped like an elongated tear drop. I don't know much about ships, or not their formal brands and companies at least, but it reminded me of the Nubian classics Galen had shown me pictures off, produced during the fall of the Republic before the company had gone bankrupt or into hiding, one of the two.

As with all things in life, I'm rarely sentimental or excited about vehicles. If they do what they're supposed to do they're fine. There's nothing more to it. But even I find something illustrious and entrancing about my latest method of transportation. I see a warped reflection of myself in its hull as I ascend the ramp into its underbelly. The hatch closes behind me, and the Stormtroopers remain outside.

The ship is opulent within as well as without. The décor is rich and creamy in color and nature, all soft light and softer angles, crystal and creamy colors. I move into a sort of sitting room and sit awkwardly in the center of a long curved couch. "Greetings, Mistress Evenstern," says a mechanical voice, as a bronze colored protocol droid bustles into the room. "I am TC-33 and I am at your service for the duration of this trip. May I be of service? Some breakfast perhaps?"

"Not now," I'm not hungry. TC-33 wanders off, in that waddling gait, protocol droids tend to have. I sense more life; I wasn't alone on this ship with the droid. I feel a little from them, some boredom, some excitement.

"Kara! Hey…" Osca entered, wearing a smart grey suit like what she'd worn when I'd first met her. Her blonde hair is curled into a cascade of ringlets. She quickly sets down the wineglass she's holding. "Welcome aboard," she says with fake decorum, flopping down in an easy chair across from me. "I'll be your personal PR go-between for the duration of the Victory tour. I look forward to working with you."

"Good to see you too," I say, neutrally. "It's a nice ship."

"State of the art," says Osca. "You should see the entertainment system. All the latest toys, excellent sound system, fully stocked pantry. There're two pilots, some droids and security officers, but the helm is totally isolated from us. We won't see them the entire flight. We should reach our destination tomorrow morning, Coruscant time. Oh, here's our flight plan." She tosses me her datapad.

I catch it easily and examine the map of the galaxy with our outlined path. "This is really inefficient," I said. "We're twisting and turning back all over the place."

"The Victory Tour isn't about conserving fuel," says Osca. "It's about making an impression. Your appearances are organized very carefully. We end on Tatooine, notice that we begin with Ryloth. That has great emotional significance."

She could be right. Ryloth was the home of Rayne, who had been my greatest ally in the arena other than Perrin. In fact, she might have been more competent. She required less maintenance, if nothing else. "It's your job," I say, "You know what you're doing."

"I'm more of the go-between than the director," the tips of her ears redden, "But it's all very well thought out. Each planet we arrive one you will join a parade, a celebration of the local culture, and culminate with a speech and ceremony where you will receive a medal of victory from each planetary governor. Then it's on with the show. You'll appear at a banquet, but never stay overnight anywhere but the ship."

"Not much tourism," I say.

"You can do that later I guess," Osca shrugs. "It's not like you'll be hurting for credits. Your master bedroom onboard is pretty nice in fact. It has a full vortex pool hot tub Jacuzzi thing in the refresher."

"Okay," I say. Would be interesting enough to try. "So are the two of us essentially traveling alone?"

"Not exactly," says Osca, apologetically.

"Kara!" a voluptuous spiky-haired woman in a dark green pantsuit bustles into the room. Iris. I recognize Clayn, a Bothan with a drooping brown hat following her, and Morse, an Ithirian with an animal hide vest over his suit of baggy and expensive clothing. I'd worked with each of them before, or rather stood around allowing them to polish my nails, dab blush on my face, and wax me from neck to toe. My prep team, determined to keep up that fashionable tribute look.

"It's good to see you," says Clayn.

"You look good," Morse says.

"But not as good as you will when we get through with you," Clayn exclaims, and all three of them laugh. Osca just sniffs in recognition.

"Are we going to do this now?" I ask, ready to kick off my boots and let them be about their business.

"Oh no, no, honey, not quite," says Iris. "We've got plenty of time. We won't reach Ryloth till late this evening, Coruscant standard time. We'll talk. I want to hear how your life's been going? How's school."

I am slightly surprised. They'd never taken much interest in me as an individual before.

"Did you show her the message?" Morse asks Osca.

"I was getting to that," says Osca. "Um, yes, Kara, I've got this message to show you." Morse takes a seat in an easy chair beside Osca, while Iris and Morse flop down on either side of me. I can feel their body heat on my skin, and draw my folded arms closer into myself, hunching my shoulders to avoid their touch.

Osca activates a holoprojector set into the table and accesses a program. Even as a foot-tall blue tinged holographic ghost, I recognize Chrona immediately. The tubby Twi'lek dress designer was the real brains of the operation that was my grooming and appearance in public last Force Games.

It's a pre-recorded message. "Kara Evenstern, congratulations again on your victory, I couldn't be prouder," he says. "I always hope you'll think of me as mentor and a positive influence on your fragile development. Ahem, yes. Anyway, I look forward to seeing you again and working with you on the 75th Force Games, should you mentor, which is very likely. I'm scheduled to design for team Tatooine again, and I couldn't be more thrilled.

"First things first," says Chrona. "I've had the pleasure of designing twenty-five separate themed outfits for your appearances along the Victory tour. Your entire wardrobe is being stocked on your shuttle as I record this message. I can't be with you on your trip; I've got too many professional obligations. Thank you by the way, your quality press as Victor has put my work in the highest demand. Anyway, Iris, Morse and Clayn will be with you the entire time, they'll be my eyes, ears and tailors on your Tour. They'll do good work. Finally, I know this may seem a bit stressful and rushed but remember, for you the worst is over. You're never going back into that arena. You're free, and you'll look damn good while you're at it, if I have anything to say about it. Try and have fun. Happy Force Games." The hologram disappears.

"To hear him talk, you'd almost think the two of you actually liked each other last year," Osca glanced at me.

"He's playing his angles," I shrugged. "He's not stupid." Maybe Chrona and I weren't so different after all.

"There you have it," says Iris, shifting to look. "So, Kara, where'd you buy those boots? They're so…minimalistic."

"At least her pants are good," Clayn critiques, "Boring and black yes, but you can't deny the way they hug the curve of her hips accentuates her whole figure."

"Granted," Iris agreed, "Where did you get those."

"A place," I say. "Some store."

"When you shop on Coruscant, no store is just _some _store, until you get enough levels down."

"We got enough levels down then," I say. "I dunno, Osca showed me the place."

Their gaze goes to Osca, who looks like she'd like to be pulling her hair out right about now. "Let's get some drinks in here, shall we?" she says sweetly.

"Where is that Protocol droid," Morse snaps his fingers.

"Greetings," the droid emerges from the shadows, "I am TC-33, and how may I be of service."

I slide down against the couch so I'm practically lying on my back. This is going to be a long trip.

…

For all its silken sheets and complimentary liquors, I still can't find the luxury I want most of all in a ship. A window. I want to see space. We're in hyperspace now, accompanied, our speed matched, by some kind of escort. That's what Osca says, but I want to see the star destroyer for myself. I find the entry to the bridge and try to get through, but the door is thoroughly looked. And so I resign to sitting around and drowning out the constant chatter of my prep team. I watch Osca try and put up with them. It's been a while since I really watched someone closely. I see her mannerisms, note her little movements as scratches her nose of plays with her. I sense her emotions. Calm, nervous excitement, annoyance with Iris, satisfaction with the transport; it's better than any holoprogram.

Osca tells me a little more about the agenda. At each planet, our shuttle will land, and I will be the prime finale of a parade to a predetermined location. There I will address the masses, and steal away to a banquet with the Imperial governors and the rest of the elite, before I depart. I'll see very little of each planet, I'm here to work. It will go the same on Tatooine, only instead of departing immediately, I'll have the chance to stay with my family at the new house I'd won for them for a few days, and the banquet will happen a few days later, showcasing the announcement of the Quarter Quell.

It all sounds simple, very easy. I just need to focus on convincing the citizenry of my 'Loyalty' to the empire.

I can only spend so much time eating, and half-watching trashy holoprograms. Morse is fascinated by the interplay of relationships of the various characters (more like caricatures) of middle-class Coruscant citizens. I can't help but think the whole thing is pointless. Why do people allow themselves to experience such unhelpful conflicting emotions. If you want a job, do the job. If you want the girl, woe her or simply take her, whichever suits your purposes. Don't associate with those you wish to avoid, find another way, even retaliate if the situation demands it. All this endless talking disguises the fact that each of these people could fix their problems in about two minutes if they got to work.

Fortunately, for Morse's continued enjoyment at least (as I hadn't spoken up yet) we are approaching Ryloth. My prep team gets to work. Osca works over some reports and messages in the other room, giving me a semblance of privacy. Not that it bothers me. Some would consider the way they work demeaning, but I only give a damn what others think when they are intrinsic to giving me success, prosperity and all the things that make one's life more likely to succeed.

It seems to go faster this time, the makeup, the scrubbing, the dress fitting. Maybe a simple stop on the Victory Tour warrants less preparation than the pre-games interview? Anyway, Chrona's clothing us up to standard. Ornate and complexly fashionable, but still wearable and practical enough for movement. Still nothing will compare to his work on that flaming jumpsuit. Even I can appreciate that one (at least in retrospect).

My blonde hair is done up into a bun at the back of my head, held in place with a jeweled silver pin. I wear a dress of airy greenish blue material, it leaves my shoulders bare but the ends of the sleeves are held up by my hands, with loops of fabric that go over my fingers. The front of the dress ends just below my knees, and my feet are shod in flat sandals, only a few leather straps wrapping up my legs keep them attached. In the mirror, I see finally what Chrona had in mind. The jewel in my hairpin is the same color that Rayne's skin had been.

I wear a necklace with a teardrop shaped crystal. Galen's pendant is hidden safely back in my room, they wouldn't let me wear it. Probably wise, it would be counter-productive to the image I'm trying to promote.

I can feel it, my ship entering the atmosphere. Welcome to Ryloth.

"I hope you have your speech all ready," says Morse.

"I'm sure she'll do great," Clayn chides him.

"You do know what you're going to say?" Osca whispers in my ear.

"Actually, I have no idea," I say. Before us, the floor of the entryway opens, the gangplank lowers, letting in a gust of chilly air.

Osca pats my cheek, "Thought so."

I descend in a calm, serene fashion, and am met by a round of applause from the assembled Twi'lek technicians and stormtroopers. There are a lot of stormtroopers.

My ship has touched down on an outdoor landing pad set into the side of a building set into a city set into a mountain. Over the edge of the pad I can see a stony plain far below. It looks harsh, like the rockier narrows of Tatooine if they were painted with a wider color palate. High above, the mountains are capped with snow and ice.

A crew of grey uniformed workers, most of them alien, bustles around me. My prep team slinks to the sidelines. I can see a grey uniformed Imperial official, albeit a low-ranking one, looking down his nose at the proceedings. "Very well," he claps his hands. "Let's get this parade on the road. Places everyone. Miss Evenstern, it's a pleasure to meet you and all that but your public is waiting. Let's have you step onto that speeder right there."

It's not unlike the one I rode in the tribute parade on Coruscant, gold-colored with a hidden pilot, there's a wide flat space for me to stand, and even a handle for me to hold onto.

"Eyes open, back straight, charm on," Osca cautions me, before I leave her behind. I climb onto my perch, and the first celebration of the Victory Tour begins.

I don't much of what precedes me in the parade, only what I can glimpse. I assume it's a sort of celebration of Twi'lek culture. I see performers ahead, jugglers, acrobats and dancers. Not the Twi'lek dancers I was used to on Tatooine. These were artists, not just whores.

Directly ahead of me march a group of stormtroopers, at least fifty of them, picking up their heels in neat synchronization. Their white armor and their black blasters gleam.

I watch the city go by. The buildings are primarily stone, though the metal touch of technology is apparent everywhere. I've never seen so many lekku in one place. There are Twi'leks everywhere, each shade and color of the species is on display, young and old, male and female. They crowd the corners of the streets, behind ropes, and lean over balconies above and peer out of windows.

I am cheered from left and right. But this is not a happy city. I can feel their stress. I can feel it. they're glad to see me, I did good by them in the Force Games, as well as could be expected, but nobody's cheering for the stormtroopers. There is fear of their power, but there is also anger, a desire not to take it anymore. Whatever it is? Totalitarian oppression probably, that's what the Empire dishes out.

Will the entire tour be like this? I wonder. Is it always like this. I don't care, it doesn't bother me. But I'm sure the Empire hates it. Is this really their general approval rating outside of the capitol, outside of the Imperial core, or is Ryloth just anomalous?

By the time the parade ends, I don't even have to focusing on sensing their thoughts to feel the dissatisfaction in the air.

We end up in a main square, a crowd of antsy people are audience to a stage and podium, built against the front steps of a large, judicial looking building. Banners hang off the front of the building, showcasing the Imperial seal. The stormtroopers set up a perimeter. My speeder pulls right up to the stage, and I walk up calmly. The audience oohs and aahs, but it still sounds somehow sad.

I share the stage with a few more Imperial officials, white male humans every one (no surprise there). Osca's on the end of the row, as my PR handler. She must have taken a quicker route to arrive before me.

I am embraced by a short green Twi'lek man who makes Chrona look slim. I think he's the civilian governor. Elected officials like him are the Empire's chief puppets. Tatooine trades theirs out every couple years, and each one does less than the last.

Anyway, the governor bellows, "The planet of Ryloth recognizes Kara Evenstern as victor of the seventy-fourth hunger games." He takes a slim box from his robe, and opens it to reveal a small broach with a blue gemstone set into it. It looks a lot like the decoration in my hair. He helps me pin it on, it hangs heavy over my left breast.

I am propelled up to the podium. "Just say a few words," the governor whispers to me, "something they'll like," and I'm alone in front of hundreds of people.

I clear my throat, and it's amplified across the crowd by the microphone system set into the podium before me. I had been sure it would come to me during the parade, but now I have nothing. _Something they'll like_. Well everyone likes to feel important.

"Hello Ryloth," I say. There is silence. Silence and staring. They're all looking at me. I swallow.

"I don't pretend to speak for your male tribute," I say, "I barely saw him, never spoke to him, not before he was torn apart. But Rayne. Rayne I knew. I owe my life to Rayne."

I'm spitballing here, but it's the best I can think of. "In a game where we were meant to kill, outrun and outthink each other, she chose to save a life. She protected me, and if not for her I wouldn't be standing here today."

"There's not a day goes by," I lie, "That I don't think of how she died, don't rue the day. I am so sorry. I'm sorry I couldn't save her, not like she saved me. She was stronger than all of us, kinder than all of us. She was…Ryloth.

"Thank you for your daughter."

There's no applause, no shouting, but I don't need it. I can feel the wave of emotion almost as if it was physically manifest. A hand is raised, toward me, but pointing past me, pointing toward the sun, the fingers divided into a three pronged shape: the thumb, middle finger and pinky protruding. Then another and another: a sea of blue and green and red hands.

It's crude symbolism, but I know what it is. I can _feel_ what it means rising from them like steam from a boiling pot. It's the same symbol etched into the pendant back in my room on my ship.

A stocky man in peasant clothing pushes to the front of the crowd. My eyes are drawn to him instantly. His Twi'lek skin is exactly the same color as Rayne's. I sense more than see the single tear slipping down his cheek. But he's not sad, not merely sad. He's furious.

So furious I'm not even surprised when he seizes a stormtrooper by the rim of his helmet and pulls him off his feet, slamming his knee into the white armored face.

The silence goes instantly. Shouts and barked orders and pounding feet. If the crowd is a sea of Twi'leks it becomes a stormy ocean. Trooper after trooper is swallowed up by the grasping, beating hands.

The screams really begin seconds after the first blow, when the stormtroopers open fire. Crimson bolts of energy strafe into the crowd, sheering through flesh and bone. The smell of ozone and scorched meat fills my nostrils.

Someone in the crowd has a blaster too. A bolt of energy flies over the head of one of the Imperial officers, burning a hole right through the imperial flag.

A white-armored hand closes around my wrist. The stormtrooper pulls me back, as my podium tips over. I hear speeders in the air. The righteous fury of the crowd has now fully been traded for panic.

Joined by crouching, stumbling Imperial officers and one very nervous regional governor, I'm pulled through the double doors of the building behind me, to my so-called safety, just as the gas begins to spray.


	3. Chapter 3

Chapter 3:

"I think it's safe to say that went terribly," Osca sighs, thrusting her hands deep inside the pockets of her suit.

I say nothing, but simply sink deeper into my bathwater. It's almost covering my nose.

There was no banquet; I was swept right out the back on the building into an armored speeder in the alley, which flew me back to my ship. We took off within minutes.

I'd come straight here as soon as I was aboard. After my previous life, bathing in water, general wastage of water, had been one of the largest culture shocks. I like it. I enjoy the sensual pleasure immersing myself in the liquid that could have been a gift of life to dozens of people dying of thirst. These hypothetical individuals would never get the chance. That control, that power, that deliberate _importance_ of your own comfort and position over all else was what opulence was all about. At least it was what it meant to me. It helps me cope with the pointless.

I hadn't bothered to lock up, Osca and my prep team had already seen everything. As if I even cared in the first place. When Osca came looking for me to find my dress and jewelry on the floor and me immersed thusly, the tips of her ears got very red. But not red enough for her to leave me in peace.

"What were you thinking?" Osca sounds incredulous. "Weren't you supposed to talk about how happy you were and how great the Empire is and all that stuff."

I sit up, spitting out some water. I point my finger at her, "I was getting to that. I didn't get the chance before people started throwing punches."

"Yeah, well, not much good then," says Osca. "I was just hologramming my aunt…"

"You're not in trouble are you?"

"I'm fine," Osca says, "She knows it's not my fault. But I want you to know that the Empire will be writing all your speeches from now on, and you will not deviate from the text."

"Got it," I say.

Osca looks at the floor, at the door, almost turns to leave, but hesitates. "Just…be careful yeah? I don't want you to get hurt. You could have been killed."

"I don't feel like they were really gunning for me," I admit.

"Fine, then I could have been killed," said Osca. "Or one of a dozen Imperial officers, let alone all the stormtroopers who I'm sure were at least severely injured. I don't want anyone to die."

"Could've fooled me," I say.

"Oh?"

"It's pretty much your job," I say, "being part of a public execution for forty-nine kids."

"That's different," she says. "The Games are different."

"How?" I ask. "Because it's controlled, because it's a ritual, because you know what's going to happen, because the galaxy is watching. That's better than the random natural selection that real life actually entails?"

"Actually…" Osca trails off, "Yes, it is better. The Games are a warning. They bring us together as an Empire. Those deaths have meaning, far more meaning than somebody gunned down in the street because some little bitch Kara named won't keep her mouth shut."

"Okay then." We stare into each other's faces in silence. Osca seems to have forgotten that I'm in the bath. I hadn't wanted to make her angry, just to show her the hypocrisy she was part of. People miss that sort of thing if you don't point it out.

"Let's not do this," says Osca. "This has been a challenging day for all of us. I need to get some sleep, and maybe a shower. Probably not in that order."

I lie back, and stretch out my legs, crossing my ankles on the rim of the tub, crossing my arms behind my head. "As far as I'm concerned we never had this conversation, other than the parts I'm supposed to know about."

"Good," says Osca.

"So," I say. "Where to next?"

"Might be Correlia," says Osca. "I've got to check, the Tour plan changes sometimes."

"I'll be right here." I wiggle my toes at her.

The red in Osca's ears moves down to her cheeks as she leaves.

…

My victor's parade on Correlia takes longer to reach its destination than the first. I think they choose a bigger city. In any case, it is a more technologically inclined. On some streets it seems I might as well be on Coruscant. Not that Correlia doesn't have its fair share of plains and snow-capped peaks (from what I've heard).

If Ryloth was sick, Correlia has a minor allergy. I'm cheered again as I wave (though some people spitefully refrain, I try to recall if I killed one of their tributes, most of the time I had no idea where whoever I was killing was from, the actual struggle was just too distracting). The subtext, sub-feeling, is there, but more reserved, far from its breaking point. The Twi'leks were incredibly pissed at their Empire. The humans of Correlia are simply annoyed.

My clothing on Ryloth was slightly Rayne inspired, and I wonder what I'm supposed to be now? A freighter captain? A Smuggler. I wear a long brown coat that stretches down to my thighs, over seemly black trousers and a white shirt, loosely buttoned. I must admit, it's more practical than anything Chrona's ever dressed me in. The fire suit might have come in handy during the Games themselves, but that was about it.

The stage is bigger, and the flags are cut differently, but the layout of the set I roll into is still very similar. I walk past the row of men in uniform, and humbly allow them to place their tiara of a token upon my head. I think clashed with my outfit, not that I know so much about fashion (functionality is more my priority).

Osca passes me a datapad as I take my place in front of the podium. I look out over the sea of people (mostly human but there are plenty of other species) in attendance. I look at the datapad and begin to read the speech provided for me. I read slowly, and with little emotion, focusing on getting the words right (reading aloud is not a strong suit of mine, I hadn't needed it for much of my life).

"Thank you, I am honored by your generous reception," I read. "I am pleased to have the opportunity to stand before you today to praise our kind and loving Emperor. I owe everything to the Empire, and with their rewards my life is now just," I squint the small type, "perfect."

I raise the tablet in front of my face to get a better angle. "The Force Games fulfill a necessary place in our society. As a ritual they bring us together, and I'm proud to have been part of such a great memorial to the horrors of war. I advocate the Games and condemn all non-sanctioned conflict, so that there can be peace. Also, because of the Games, my life has been bettered beyond my wildest dreams and hopes. You each have the chance to be blessed as I have. After all, it's nearly time for the seventy-fifth Force Games. I look forward to seeing a new citizen of the Empire receive the incredible opportunity I have."

I don't mess up until the end. "Happy Force Games and may the gods…uh, I mean the odds, be ever in your favor."

As I turn away from the platform, the people of Correlia applaud my back.

…

This time, there is a banquet. Sitting at the head of the table between the planetary governor and the highest ranking imperial official, I am bombarded with shallow paparazzi-like questions. I answer them all cryptically as I eat.

The food is satisfying. Unnecessarily rich and expensive, but filling. I fill my stomach in about five minutes, but the banquet goes on and one. The richer you are, the less you value food, the more you talk while you eat. At least that's what I've observed.

After the banquet, we return to my ship, and I go to bed.

I awake several hours later, shower, dress, and move out into the main lounge area, hoping I could find TC-33 for some breakfast. I find my Prep team sprawled across the couches, eyes glued to the holo-screen. Osca sits among them, her eyes are wide and her knees pulled up to her chest, her mouth slightly open.

"What's up," I ask, as I take a look at the holoscreen.

It's a news broadcast of a crater. The view pans out. I see that a hole is blown out the entire side of the square building. One of its spires has toppled, and a second leans precariously. There is flame and black metal everywhere. I recognize the building. It's the Tribute Academy on Coruscant. I spent a week here before the Force Games, being tested and trained. It's a vital area to the Games themselves (and a restored version of the fabled Jedi Temple of the Republic era), and somebody bombed it. The sound is off, but the captions are just screaming terrorism.

"Oh," I say. "That's unfortunate."

"Where will they hold the pre-games stuff now?" Iris asked.

"I wonder how many people were hurt?" says Clayn.

"Maybe," Morse whispers, "If we turned the sound on they would tell us."

Osca looks right at me. She's gotten a little misty-eyed around the edges. "This had better not be your fault."


End file.
